


Corinthians

by appalachian_fireflies



Series: Clint 'verse [1]
Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: D/s, Early Days, Humor, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Transphobia, buddy cop show, surprisingly punk phil - Freeform, the bible belt is the belt they beat you with - Freeform, troubled young clint, white trash clint - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-29
Updated: 2016-07-03
Packaged: 2018-07-18 12:41:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 10,420
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7315597
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/appalachian_fireflies/pseuds/appalachian_fireflies
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Phil doesn't give the kill order.</p><p>SHIELD doesn't regret it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Please forgive formatting awkwardness; I am dictating this via software due to cripple hands
> 
> Fun facts: auto correct firmly believes that Hawkeye is hot guy and ignores my attempts to teach it otherwise

“Got a name for me?” Phil asks. The agent behind him is jogging to keep up. Carmichael? He feels a little bad, but it doesn't slow him down. He needs to get to the prisoner before some ambitious ladder climber tries to get their claws in his case.

“Surname Barton, preferred name Clint,” Carmichael replies quickly, with an air of authority. The tone is a little over-the-top, but Phil can’t blame her; it’s nice to finally pin a name to the ghost and feel like they’re halfway competent at their jobs. It’s been a long four years.

“List of confirmed kills,” Carmichael continues, and Phil tunes her out. He knows Hawkeye’s kills. He’s spent his nights in the company of the list of names pinned to his wall, trying to figure out if this guy is an assassin or a vigilante. 

“She left Iowa at 13, presumably because, you know-“

Phil stumbles over, well, the flat linoleum tiling. “Hawkeye is a woman?”

Carmichael nods. “A transsexual woman-”

“You mean Hawkeye identifies as a woman?”

“No, no,” Carmichael clarifies, “other way around.”

“That-“ Phil starts, stops himself. Of course that exists. He’s just, he’s never really thought about it before. “What else?” 

Carmichael winces. “That’s where the trail ends. Once she left home, she must have gotten work off the books somehow.” 

Phil gives the door to the cell block his biometrics, huffs. All that time searching down any and every lead for a paper trail. “No wonder Hawkeye was so hard to find.”

“No kidding,” Carmichael grumbles. “But they’re not getting out of there anytime soon,” Carmichael gestures. “At 23. What a waste of your life.”

Phil nods, looks through the one-way glass into the cell where a young person wearing a ripped purple tee and a bloodstained pair of light wash jeans sits on a bare cot, shoulders hunched. 

“Thank you, Agent,” Phil dismisses Carmichael.

Phil uses his badge and biometrics to open the cell, waves the guard outside. Barton’s eyes flick up at him, assessing.

“I don’t figure this is the kind of situation where I get a lawyer, huh?” Barton drawls.

Phil starts a little, staring. Whatever he was expecting, it wasn’t a baritone. He realizes he’s been staring too long when the corner of Barton’s mouth tilts up in a smile.

Barton runs the back of his hand along his chin, worrying the stubble with a little laugh. “Seen that look before. You’re looking for it in me, right?” He spreads out his hands. “Big-boned ‘s in my blood, sorry. I’ve never been real pretty neither.”

Phil’s embarrassed, on the wrong foot- Barton’s right, he was looking. He’s solid, muscular, little white scars on his hands and his cheek. “You’re hard one to pin down, Barton.”

Barton flinches, just barely. “You guys are good. I haven’t heard that name for a long time.” He tilts his head. “You didn’t deadname me though, that was awful nice.”

 _Awful nice_. Phil gets the impression that Barton’s hamming it up with the accent; even in the Midwest, no one under 60 says that. Is he playing with him?

“Clint, right?” Phil smiles what Fury calls his Pleasant Pencil Pusher smile. “A dozen fake IDs with different last names, all the same first name.” Phil drags a metal chair across the concrete floor, letting it screech loudly in the empty space. “You want to tell me what got you in here?”

“Nahh, not particularly,” Clint shuffles his feet where they hang less than an inch off the floor. “Hey Agent, which one of you guys was it that finally got me?”

For half a second, Phil thinks Clint’s asking for his name. Then he realizes he’s asking which agency.

“Fair’s fair, Clint. You answer a question for me, and I’ll answer yours.”

“Alright,” Clint allows. “Shoot.”

“Where did you get the name Hawkeye?” 

Clint raises his eyebrows. “You get to ask any question, and that’s the one you ask? You’re a shit interrogator.” Clint mimes a bow and arrow, letting the arrow fly. “The Amazing Hawkeye. My circus act. I’m, you know, a little famous. To any dumb hick whose idea of good time is the circus.”

So that’s why he’s hamming it up. He thinks the more he puts on the accent, the more Phil will underestimate him. _Dumb hick._

”You’re in SHIELD’s custody,” Phil replies without preamble. 

The shift in Barton’s body language is dramatic. He goes from an affected loose and joking to stiff as a board. “I’m not talkin’ to you bunch of goddamn sadists,” he spits, and now the accent is as honest and unaffected as it gets.

“That's rich, coming from an assassin,” Phil replies, on the defense. Like he has been for this whole conversation. Clint in control, attacking, like he wants. Because he’s scared, and of course he is. He’s looking at life- at best. He’s killed SHIELD agents. “We protect people.”

Clint looks at him for a long moment, like he’s trying to decide something. “Nah,” he mumbles to himself.

“What was that?” Phil asks.

“Beware of false prophets, which come to you in sheep's clothing, but inwardly they are ravening wolves,” Clint recites. “Ye shall know them by their fruits.” He looks directly into Colson’s eyes for a moment, then looks away like he can't be bothered any longer.

“Maybe tomorrow morning, then,” Phil smiles pleasantly. “We’ve got time, Mr. Barton.”

Clint’s brow furrows for a moment, but then he turns away.

*

Phil doesn’t make it to tomorrow morning. An hour later when he’s finally about to head home, he gets called right back to the prisoner’s cell. He could refuse go, of course, but it’s not like he’s going to be able to sleep wondering what Clint could possibly want to say.

“No mics,” Clint repeats stubbornly.

Phil sighs. “Already done, Mr. Barton. What-“

Clint looks directly into the camera and growls, “No mics.”

Phil raises and eyebrow, looks into the camera as well.

“Sorry, boss,” Peters’ voice crackles over the speaker.

“That’s alright, Peters,” Phil says. “Good enough, Barton? Or do you prefer Clint?”

“Either is fine,” Clint allows.

“How did you know? Out of curiosity.”

“You asking me to reveal my super powers, boss?” Clint shakes his head, taps his ears. His hearing aids. Phil hadn’t really registered them before. “Feedback. Makes this high-pitched noise, drives me nuts. They’ve got better ones, now, but usually I just turn ‘em off.”

Huh. “Why’d you bring me here when I could be sleeping, Clint?”

“Because you don’t know, do you?” Clint searches his face. “You really don’t.”

“Please," Phil says pleasantly, “enlighten me."

“What SHIELD does,” Clint prompts, like it’s obvious.

“Protect the defenseless? Maintain national security?”

Clint whistles. “Lord A’mighty. Someone drank their Kool-Aid this morning.”

“Mr. Barton,” Phil sighs. He’s starting to lose interest; Hawkeye’s got something going on, clearly, and Phil isn’t sure it’s psychosis, but he’s not betting against either.

“How’s your history?”

“I’m a big Cap fan,” Phil allows.

“Then you’ve heard of Hydra.”

“Sure,” Phil replies, route. “Nazi science division, headed by the Red Skull. Cap took them down in ’45.”

Clint shakes his head. “No, boss. They’re still here. Snake in the grass. Evil if I ever saw it.”

Phil runs a hand over his face. “I’ll see you in the morning, Mr. Barton.”

“Hey, listen,” Clint frowns, affronted. “I’m a criminal. I get that. My word’s not worth much to you. But whatever you think I am, I’m not that."

“Good night, Mr. Barton,” Phil says, and leaves to do the same.

“You best keep one eye open tonight,” Clint’s voice follows him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> full disclosure this was going to be omega Clint but then I realized that I thought that was a more palatable way of writing a trans character and I was like fuck that tbh


	2. Chapter 2

It’s exactly 9am when Phil makes his way past a sea of cubicles and into his office, coffee in hand. It’s not much, and the way the fluorescents flicker drives him a little nuts, but it’s only been his for a couple months and the novelty still gets to him. Plus, it has a door.

All the information they’ve compiled on Barton is still sitting in a folder on his desk. He opens it absently while he dials down to the cellblock; hopefully now that the reality of his situation has set in the prisoner will be more willing to talk, but it doesn’t hurt to try to find a way in.

“Agent Philip Coulson, serial 743182," he says automatically, “checking on the status of a prisoner. Barton. Can you-"

“Barton’s, uh," there's a pause on the line. "Barton’s deceased, sir."

Phil’s standing before he realizes it, tethered by only his phone cord. “How? Why wasn’t I informed?"

“Only just happened, Sir. We were told he poisoned himself, had it hidden somewhere, maybe implanted.”

“Who told you?”

“Medical. Medical just took ‘im. They-“

Phil is all the way down in medical when he realizes he’s still clutching the coffee cup in his hand, tendons stiff when he peels his fingers away. There are so many unanswered questions still, and last night Phil was half convinced that Barton had somehow been misled.

He sees Barton’s body in a bed at the other end of the room, a single doctor hovering over him. She’s removing a bag of pale yellow fluid connected to an IV in his arm, and looks up when she hears his footsteps, eyes going wide when she sees him.

“Agent,” she starts, fully facing him now, her body between himself and Barton. She says more, but it’s lost when Phil notices the kink in Barton’s line, then looks up into Barton’s open eyes. He blinks, and Barton’s eyes are closed again.

“What are you giving him?” Phil points to the bag on the IV stand.

“Oh that’s, just potassium,” the doctor says dismissively.

Yellow potassium? “He’s still breathing. You haven’t given him an antidote?”

“We ran a blood sample through our database but were unable to find a match,” she says quickly. “We may not have an antidote. The fluids are supportive, in case he’s able to pull through. But I wouldn’t-“

“I understand,” Phil says pleasantly, and punches her in the jaw, wincing when she topples like a sack of bricks.

“Jesus,” Clint groans, pulling the IV from his arm.

“Mr. Barton,” Phil says amiably. “I don’t say this often, but I hope I’m correct in assuming that my coworkers were trying to murder you.”

He nods. “I only took a little sip this morning, but I was getting thirsty, you know.”

Phil frowns. “I thought, the IV-“

“Oh, no. I mean, yeah. That too. I think that was Plan B when Plan A failed.”

“Can you walk?”

“Yeah.” Clint swings his legs off the edge of the bed and stands gingerly. “You believe me now?”

“Mr. Barton,” Phil sighs, “several SHIELD agents in this building are on your list of alleged kills. Most of them had family, and certainly all had friends here.”

The door bursts open, a guard practically falling through it.

“Agent,” he says, pulling his sidearm, “we need to secure-“

Phil pulls what looks like a gun from his suit jacket, and the guard goes down in a bolt of electricity.

“Sorry, Williams,” Phil winces.

“What in the hell,” Clint stares.

“It’s like a Taser,” Phil keeps both hands on the weapon in front of him. “This location’s no longer safe for you. Follow me.” Phil looks back at him make sure he’s mobile. “Don’t make me regret this.”

It’s not too far to the garage, and for some reason no alarms have gone off yet.

It doesn’t stop a couple of guards from meeting them at the door.

“Ah, hello,” Phil says, and starts shooting. The armor they’re wearing may stop bullets, but it doesn’t stop what he’s packing.

By the time he turns to look behind himself, Clint is already passing him, neatly dispatching a guard he hadn’t noticed coming in from the hall.

“How do I get one of those?” Clint asks.

“One of these?” Phil waves the pistol, and neatly slaps a pair of cuffs on his wrists.

Clint sighs like a family of four just entered ahead of him in the express line at the supermarket. “I can get out of these, you know.”

“Have fun dislocating your thumbs,” Phil says mildly, tugging him along.

“How do you-“

“Hawkeye, how green do you think I am?” He shoves Clint into the backseat of his car. “I just got an office,” he says mournfully, car coughing once in the cold when he turns the key.

They make it out of the base without encountering any resistance. The hairs on the back of Phil’s neck rise.

“How are you doing?” Phil checks, craning to look back at him.

“Shitty,” Clint winces when Phil lurches around a curve.

“You don’t have any idea what it is? It’s important. It could be slow acting.”

“No,” Clint huffs, “because I’m not the kind of crazy that downs poison. You know what that does sound like, though? A fuckin’ Nazi death cult.”

The base is located outside of the city, and it doesn’t take long for Phil to turn down a gravel path around by trees. He pops the trunk, hears Clint follow him out when he pulls up the compartment under the floor.

“Holy shit," Clint says, impressed. “Sleeper."

“I’m sure that means something," Phil replies, cracking open the first aid kit, then the small box of antidotes and a phlebotomy kit.

“What do you need with all that shit, old man?"

“SHIELD often deals with the unexpected, Mr. Barton. And I’m barely a few years older than you."

“Huh. Must be your personality."

Phil flicks the vein on inside of Clint’s elbow, swipes and taps it, filling a small tube. He then apportions a drop of blood into several very small vials, each of which turns a series of colors.

“What’s the verdict?" Clint asks.

Phil draws up fluid from one of the vials in a syringe. “This," Phil says, and jabs the needle into Clint’s thigh.

“You could’ve at least cleaned the area first," Clint complaints.

“You would’ve never let me do it," Phil counters, and gets back in the car.

Clint slides into the backseat. “Where to, boss?"

“We’re doubling back a bit. Mattapan."

“Wait,” Clint says groggily, “SHIELD’s headquarters are in Boston?”

Phil laughs. “No federal agency’s headquarters are in Boston. We don’t even have a military base.”

“Coast Guard,” Clint offers.

Phil gives him a look in the rear view mirror.

“Yeah, fair enough,” he agrees.

*  
“I understand it’s a government job, but they need to pay you more,” is all Clint says when they enter the apartment in Mattapan.

Phil surveys the single room with a couch, foldout bed, and nook with a toilet, shower, and sink. The wallpaper is a peeling floral, behind which is a pattern of lime-green zig zags.

“I live in Somerville. Unless you think my safe house should be high-class digs. And there’s something to be said about planning for your retirement.” Phil sits down heavily on the worn purple couch. “I need a blunt.”

Clint starfishes on the bed, face down. “Well, it is Mattapan. Hey," Clint rolls onto his side, “what are you going to do with me now that you know you’ve been working with Hydra?"

Phil gives him a deeply weary look. "I really hope you’re not psychotic. Or maybe I do. Either way, I really do like my job, and I’m hoping I can collect enough information to report this to the Director and not get thrown in prison.”

“Why’d you risk it?" Clint asks, and there’s something guarded in his expression Phil doesn’t understand.

“We don’t murder citizens without due process, Mr. Barton.”

“You actually believe in what you’re saying," Clint says, openly curious, “don’t you?"

“SHIELD was founded by Agent Carter in Steve Rogers’ memory, with the expectation that we would live up to his values. SHIELD protects people. Now stop talking, I need to think." Phil cracks open one eye. “And don’t try to leave. You won’t like it.”

"Yeah, ok. What if I need to throw up? Right now.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> a sleeper is a car that looks a unassuming, but inside is actually a high-performance vehicle. my dad used to race cars with his bros for funsies, because what else do you do when you're young and stupid in the middle of fucking nowhere


	3. Chapter 3

“Clint," Phil whispers.

Clint grumbles and clutches his pillow more firmly. One of the room's two pillows had gone to Phil on the couch; naturally, this meant that Clint decided to tuck his own pillow in his arms and curl around it. It affected Phil in ways he’s decided not to think about. 

“Hey. Clint." Clint cracks open one eye that looks a little red and irritated. “How are you doing?"

Clint looks around the room, over to the single window. “Nighttime,” he surmises hoarsely. “I’m comin’, I’m comin’,” he manages, stumbling out of bed, and promptly trips over a stack of books on the floor.

“Aw, books," Clint frowns down at them.

“You are staying here," Phil counters firmly.

“You don’t want to go this one alone, boss," Clint shakes his head. "No one messes with Hydra and lives. Especially not without backup.”

“What makes you so sure that they’re Hydra?" Phil asks, curious. If earnestness was all that it took to convince him, he’d already be there.

“I’ve been around a lot of, well, people that aren’t shining examples of humanity. You hear a lot of stuff, about who’s recruiting, who’s the biggest guy on the block, you know. Anyone who wants to be important to Hydra, they.” He pauses. “They usually know they’re getting into some real bad shit." He looks away.

“How’d you cross their path?" Phil asks gently.

“I had this partner, Flores. He wasn’t the best. Or the brightest," Clint shrugs. “But he was decent enough, sent money back to his daughter. He was a better guy than I was, anyway. I don’t know anyone except some crazy Nazi cult that does shit like human experimentation.” He looks away at the wall, like he’s trying to puzzle something out with the fine webbing of cracks there. “I ID’d him by this scar he had-“ he laughs. “He always used to show people, like he was a hahd ass, Clint imitates. ‘I got this wicked scah’ doing whatever.”

“I’m sorry," Phil says sincerely. Whatever this is, Clint story seems genuine.

“Yeah well, that’s life," Clint shrugs. “Hey, you like my accent? I can do a lot of ‘em. Here’s my Middle America: ‘I’m Agent Coulson,’” he says, mock serious. “I like to iron my ties and always do the right thing."

“Uncanny," Phil replies, because he has no idea what motivated the emotional whiplash there, and it isn’t his place to get into it. “Are you trying to distract me from leaving?"

"I’ve been doing a pretty good job so far," Clint gives him a lopsided smile and extends the handcuffs.

“Good point," Phil says, and attaches the cuffs to a chain looped through the metal headboard of the bed. Clint opens his mouth to protest, but Phil cuts him off. “I have an automatic alert that will go out if I don’t shut it off in a couple hours from now. You won’t be left here if something happens to me. I’ll be back." Phil leaves the apartment and closes the door behind him, resetting the system, before Clint has a chance to argue.

*

Phil makes it into the SHIELD base with minimal difficulty. It's normal that no one is in this late at night due to lockout restrictions, but they’d given him after-hours access pretty early on, and for some reason his swipe still works. All those pains to hide his car and hike in, and there’s no sign that they’re even looking for him. It makes him uneasy. Why are they this confident? If this really is some organization that has infiltrated SHIELD, do they really have the kind of resources Clint believes they do?

As he’s passing his typical route past the cubicles, Phil has a horrible sinking sensation in his gut- what if they’d tracked him back to the safehouse? He’d left Clint cuffed to a bed in the belief it would keep him put and protect him, but what if they came back to finish the job with Clint strung up for them?

Phil takes a deep breath, quashes the thought. No one knows about the safe house. He pays in cash, and is as certain as he can be that he wasn’t tracked. Plus, the surprise on the door should be enough to deal with anything less than a full assault. In a public neighborhood.

Phil quietly shuts his office door behind him, and powers up his computer. It’s several long minutes for the computer to run through its start up, long blue bar creeping forward as he swivels his chair back and forth. His eyes wander over the room as the Internet’s dial-up tone starts, and sees Clint’s file still open on his desk where he dropped it.

He turns on a soft lamp and scans the first page of the file. It’s chronological, after the cover page of his basic information. There’s a medical file and a couple of school reports, starting with a pediatrician noting Reactive Attachment Disorder, and continuing over the years with a handful of suspected abuse reports that each end with Clint explaining them away. _I was clumsy. I was wrestling with my brother. I fell out of a tree._

“Oh, Clint," Phil sighs. Not that this necessarily matters; anything is fair fodder for _cool motive, still murder_ , but-

The Internet stops dialing and connects, and Phil gets to work. If the dates and times Clint mentioned tangling with corrupt SHIELD agents are true, he has a lot of cross-referencing to do.

Eventually, it comes down to waiting for the computer to run his search. In the silence that follows, he can’t ignore the pervasive sense of wrongness he’s felt since this started, that there’s something he’s missed. Clint’s profile doesn’t read like the profile of the serial killer, not that that necessarily says anything. But that, combined with his impression of the man, and so many other things that are not quite right-  
The computer beeps to signal that it’s finished, and Phil sends it to the printer. He leaves his office to pick up the document, pulls it from the tray still warm, and hears a clatter of noise above him.

Phil draws his sidearm just in time for a group of three, maybe four people to burst in through the main doors. Fuck. Phil ducks behind a cube lined with plastic dinosaurs, trying to think. It was easy to escape from his office, but there’s no way he’s getting out of this room without being noticed.

He starts to stand and take aim before he’s noticed, but he’s distracted by a body falling from the ceiling onto the floor.

A body wearing a purple t-shirt.

“Aw, vent,” Clint groans, rolling heavily but gracefully onto his feet.

The men in the doorway are momentarily stunned.

“What," Phil manages.

“I was worried," Clint says to him, but he’s staring at the men in the door. One of them cracks together a baton that glows an electric blue. “Oh, you found them. Nice job, boss." Clint slaps him on the shoulder, and man he is compact, but he is _dense_.

Phil glances down at his list for about a second, and sure enough. He smiles at the three men in the door. He likes his odds better now. “I’m lucky like that."

One of the men goes for his sidearm before Phil can react, but Clint distracts him by hitting him square in the forehead with what looks like a pen. It bounces on the ground while Clint grins, and everything happens at once.

Phil takes cover behind one of the cubes, getting off shots with his stunner that go wild. Clint, on the other hand, decides the best way to deal with the situation is to do some kind of fancy somersault and pelt annoying objects at the men until he gets close enough to punch them in the face. 

Clint actually gets in one good jaw punch, knocking one of the three unconscious, before the others to throw him to the ground and start kicking. Phil sees one of the men going for the baton the first one dropped, and takes a chance.

“Clint!" he yells, and Clint does his best to roll his body away, but it’s clear he’s struggling.

Phil shoots his stunner at the man with the baton, and the resulting chain reaction is everything he could’ve hoped it would be. The baton makes an ominous crackling noise, and instead of the circuits overloading and burning out it discharges, covering the man in what looks like electrical fire. The metal armor on the man next to him is also quickly engulfed, electricity crackling over his body and grounding down into the floor.

Unfortunately, Clint is near enough that he absorbs some of the shock, shouting when it hits him. He convulses once, and goes still. All the others are down for the count, and no one else is in sight.

Phil holsters his sidearm, and runs over to check the vitals not of his coworkers in several years, but of the man he met less than a day ago. Clint groans with feeling, and Phil breathes a sigh of relief.

“Hey," Phil grasps his shoulder, “you okay?"

Clint weakly mumbles something he can’t hear.

“What?”

“Maybe if you kiss it better," Clint repeats with wide eyes, waits for Phil’s reaction, and cackles. He rolls up onto his feet groaning the whole way. “Not my idea of good pain, but it could’ve been worse.” Clint nudges one of the unconscious men with his toe. “Which one do you want?”

Phil goes around to make sure all three of the men are still breathing. “Williams,” Phil points.

“You sure?" Clint frowns skeptically. “That one kinda looks like hard ass.”

"Trust me,” Phil replies.

“Whatever you say, boss." Clint grabs the man’s ankles, and starts dragging. Phil moves in to share half the burden, and they make their way down the hall.

“Did you really dislocate your thumbs?"

Clint winces. “It looked so much easier when The Amazing Mr. Elastic did it. Though,” he reflects, hitting the down button for the elevator with his free hand, “the guy could stretch his skin like it was taffy, so something was probably up there. Oh!" he grins. “I like that surprise you left for me. With the door. Fun stuff.”

It takes some maneuvering to drag the body into the elevator without leaving his head outside the doors. They attempt to close a couple times before Clint and Phil figure it out, though.

“That security system was top-of-the-line,” Phil replies wearily. “It was expensive.”

Clint shrugs. “I can do you better.” 

“I assume you didn’t walk,” Phil prompts.

“Borrowed a car,” Clint confirms, and Phil rolls his eyes. “Found where you’d ditched your car and hiked, hung out for a bit ‘till I saw the Hydra goons follow you. Parked right outside, lucky us.”

“Lucky us,” Phil agrees dryly.

*

Williams is laid out on the safehouse bed, still unconscious, but making a few promising snuffles.

Phil’s thoughts can’t help but drift to Clint’s file as they wait for Williams to regain consciousness. He doesn’t realize he’s staring at Clint until he sees Clint looking back at him, expression as clouded as he’s ever seen it.

“Stop looking at me like that," Clint says, short.

Phil could say sorry here, be done with it. That would be the appropriate thing to do. “I don’t know you’re talking about," he says, playing innocent.

“Bullshit,” Clint counters angrily. “Whatever you think you know about me, you don’t. Don’t put your shit on me, alright?”

“You never even got the chance to finish high school, did you?” Phil prods.

“Boss, I didn’t finish middle school,” Clint laughs. 

“How’d you stay off the radar that long?”

“D’you know how many kids go missing in the US every week? Lots of them are dead, sure, but lots of them aren’t.”

“Why’d you leave?” 

“Why do you think?” Clint challenges. 

“Your file says that your parents were abusive.” 

“There it is,” Clint says, smug. "That’s what the look was for. You think I was helpless. Poor Joanne, letting her parents abuse her because she doesn’t know any better.”

“Tell me, then,” Phil prompts, trying not to come off too gentle. 

“Better to deal with the situation you know how to handle than one you don’t," Clint rocks up onto the balls of his feet. Plus, Barney," Clint looks down. “It’s not important. You think I’m stupid."

“I think you do your best in a lot of difficult situations," Phil says carefully. “I think you’re very resourceful. And since I started this case I’ve always been impressed with how intelligent you are.”

Clint pauses for a long moment where Phil thinks he might have gotten to him. “Hoo boy,” Clint bats his eyelashes, "I love it when you tell me I’m pretty.”

If Clint thinks he can gay panic Phil, he’s got another thing coming. Williams, of course, chooses the moment to make some feeble movements towards consciousness, pulling at his cuffs.

Before Phil can blink, Clint lunges forward with a pair of pliers he pulled from nowhere, grabs William’s jaw, and yanks out one of his teeth with a sharp tug. 

Williams yells in pain, and Clint turns the bloody tooth in the pliers contemplatively. “Oh,” he says in a small voice.

“You didn’t even ask me any questions!” Williams clutches his jaw, eyes wide. “What the hell do you even want?”

“It’s not cyanide,” Clint says, stunned.

“Look, Coulson, right?” Williams looks at Phil pleadingly. “Just ask me some questions, yeah?”

“Peas in the freezer,” Phil says calmly.

“Right,” Clint says, and tosses the bag to Williams, who completely misses it. 

“Come on,” Clint complains, “I did it underhand and everything.” 

“I’m cuffed to a bed!” Williams says, like he’s trying to decide just how crazy Clint is. 

“Oh please,” Clint mutters, and drops the bag unceremoniously in Williams’ lap. 

“I’ll take it from here,” Phil says, quiet but clear. 

Clint eyes Williams up and down, from his shaved head to the tattoos on his biceps. “You sure? I don’t mind.” 

“Wait outside, please. I’ll let you know if I need you.” Phil rolls up his sleeves. 

“Sure thing, boss,” Clint gives him a perfect military salute, and Phil catalogues that information for later. 

“Mr. Williams,” Phil smiles. 

*

“Hey boss,” Clint knocks on the door he’s cracked open, then steps through. “Been a while, just checking-“

Phil is mirroring William’s posture perfectly, expression sympathetic, head tilted like he’s listening. 

“She said you were lazy?” Phil rephrases, and Williams nods. “Damn. That and the pressure of the money, huh?” 

“Yeah, yeah,” Williams nods, face a little blotchy. “Exactly.” His eyes dart to Clint, then back to Phil. “I just don’t want to be stuck in no fookin’ prison for the rest of my life either, you know?”

Phil makes an empathetic noise. “The good news is that you didn’t kill anyone,” he says. 

“Uh. I’m gonna order a couple pizzas,” Clint says, and shuts the door behind him. 

Damn, Coulson is good.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> reactive attachment disorder is when a child (often one who is very neglected) doesn't go to a caregiver for comfort when distressed, and/or is excessively affectionate towards strangers in an attempt to receive comfort/affection
> 
> and yeah brooklyn 99 is a modern reference, oh well. there are also aliens so cut me some slack


	4. Chapter 4

"No," Phil corrects, “you want to ask for Carmichael at this address. Tell him Phil Coulson from SHIELD sent you.”

Williams nods, and opens the door to see Clint standing there with two pizza boxes. Williams jumps a little.

“Hey, man. Sorry about your tooth. You want a couple slices before you go?" Clint offers one of the boxes.

“I would," Williams says icily, “if I could fuckin’ chew it." He sidles his way past Clint and into the hallway.

“Remember, if you run, they won’t be as lenient," Phil calls after him.

“I don’t think that man likes me," Clint observes. “That was one hell of an impressive good cop you did.” Clint sets the pizza down next to the sink.

“I had a pretty convincing bad cop to soften him up for me," Phil laughs. “He’d been acting twitchy for a few months, figured he wasn’t in too deep yet. Is that Supreme?"

“What’d you find out?" Clint asks around a mouthful pizza.

“Oh, I know what they’re doing," Phil folds his slice in half, “and how to find out where they’re going."

Clint gapes. “That’s it? We don’t have to interrogate the rest of ‘em for some vague clue?”

“A clue we only figure out the meaning of at the crucial moment?" Phil laughs.

“I don’t know, I’ve only really robbed places.”

“And killed people!" Phil says, incredulous. “It’s hard to mistake the arrows. You didn’t try to hide it, at all.” 

“I’m not gonna feel bad about that. I did my homework, only took a few of the jobs I was offered. Killed a couple serial rapists, traffickers. Guys who tried to get street kids hooked on drugs to keep ‘em desperate.” Clint looks at Phil. “The SHIELD agents that tortured and killed my partner. People like that are gonna keep hurting ‘till you stop them, they don’t give a shit about therapy unless it teaches them the right words to get them off the hook.” 

“Yeah,” Phil says, because that story makes the most sense. More than that, it feels right. “You seem very sure.” 

“I am very sure,” Clint says levelly. “About the ones I’ve killed, anyway. I’ve done some fucked up things, but not that.” 

Phil nods. “You didn’t leave.”

“Maybe I figure you’re my best chance for redemption,” Clint acknowledges. 

Phil pauses. “Maybe you’re right. It’s not a good idea to take on Hydra alone. But I can’t be sure who is and who isn’t Hydra at SHIELD. I think it’s a copycat group. They’re trying to resurrect Red Skull, and they might have the resources to do it.”

“You serious?” Clint raises his eyebrows. “Like, you believe that?” 

“I don’t know yet,” Phil says honestly. “Want to come with me and find out?” 

“Yeah,” Clint straightens his spine. “Where are we going?”

“Harvard College,” Phil smiles. “They’ve got information we need.” 

“Damnit,” Clint slumps. 

*

“I hate this,” Clint tugs at the collar of his button-down. 

“I told you they dress like college students,” Phil counters, ignoring the loud honking to get him to turn into the lit pedestrian crosswalk. 

“Like Harvard College students,” Clint counters darkly. “Half of ‘em are probably wearing suits.” 

Phil snorts. “They are not. Oh.” 

“What.”

“I didn’t think they’d close Memorial Drive when it’s this cold out. I mean they usually close it Sundays in the summer, but-“

“It’s Boston,” Clint counters. “There’s gotta be one jackass running in shorts- oh, there he is,” he points to the path alongside the Charles River. “Jesus!”

“I know, I see it,” Phil swerves his car into the left lane.

“That’s- that’s definitely one of the lanes. The speed limit here is 50- why are they all parked in the lane like that?”

“I don’t know,” Phil shrugs. “They’ve always done it. Look for parking.”

“Well, the highway’s taken,” Clint observes.

*

“I kinda hoped this would be more exciting,” Clint grumbles, knocking his knees on the dash.

“Usually if you go down Brattle,” Phil mumbles.

After they’ve parked and walked 30 minutes from their spot to Harvard Square, Clint makes a beeline for the first Dunkin’ Donuts.

“Seriously?” Phil jogs behind him. “You had the whole pitcher at home.”

“There isn’t even a line,” Clint breathes in the beautiful smell of over roasted, watered-down coffee.

“That’s because there are four in the square,” Phil looks at the donuts. “Get me a chocolate.”

As soon as they reach Harvard Yard, an entire phalanx of suits passes them through the gate.

Clint looks over at Phil, smug.

“They’re not students,” Phil defends. "They’re debate kids. It’s the high school debate tournament weekend. Just look at how badly their suits fit."

“You seem to know a lot about it,” Clint fishes. “Were you a debate kid, Phil?”

“I grew up in the area," Phil mutters, scanning around them. “We’re looking for Houghton Library. If I remember the map correctly, it should be right around here."

“How about the giant building kids are walking out of with books?" Clint prompts, walking up the steep flight of marble stairs to the wrought iron front door.

“Excuse me,” Clint smiles to the woman checking exiting student’s bags at the front desk for contraband books, “is this Houghton Library?"

“No, this is Widener,” she gives him a look. “Houghton isn’t open to the public, except tours on Fridays at 2:00pm. You need to plan ahead and get there early if you want a spot. They cap tours at 10 people for security reasons." She stares at the sign on the door that says _No Access Without Harvard ID_. 

“Thank you, ma’am,” Phil smiles, and Clint follows him out.

“Damn,” Clint sits on one of the massive marble pillars, swinging his feet. “You want me to swipe an ID?”

"No," Phil worries his lip, “we’re probably going to need to show it to get into special collections. We don’t have time for this."

“Why don’t you show your badge?" Clint asks.

“That would get me absolutely nowhere," Phil says with certainty.

“Oh, so you’ve tried?” Clint hauls himself up, smirking when Phil blushes. He points to a library across the way. “That’s probably it, right? I’ll go see what I can find out. I’m young enough to be a student. I’ll say I’m majoring in Greek mythology or something. They do that here, right?"

“Concentrating,” Phil says.

“I am,” Clint frowns.

“No, you’re concentrating, not majoring. A concentration is an area of focus. And you’re Folk and Myth.”

“Exactly," Clint says.

“And the degree is an AB, not a BA, because it’s in Latin.”

“I’m going now,” Clint informs him, and walks 400 feet to the next library. He gives one of the librarians at the book return his best kicked puppy look. “Is this Houghton Library? Because-“

“This is Lamont Library," she says, but it sounds like she’s taking pity on him.

“Ok," Clint sighs, "was it that underground one with the sculpture I just walked past? Or is that just part of this one?”

“Oh no, that’s Pusey. Houghton is the brick building next to it.”

Every single one of these buildings is brick, he doesn’t say. “How many libraries here are there?" he asks, resigned.

“Harvard has over 70 libraries," she says cheerily, “with over 18 million volumes. It’s the largest private library system in the world.”

"Jesus Christ," Clint says, and walks out. He inclines his head toward Houghton (he thinks), and Phil follows to sit with him under one of the trees.

“I got nothing," Clint says honestly. “It doesn’t even look like anyone’s going in or out of that one.”

Phil groans and rests his chin on his knees. Clint huffs and lays out on his back, closing his eyes.

The library door clicks open and they snap to attention in tandem, heads following the movement of the door like dogs that’ve been stuck in the back yard all day and just spotted a squirrel.

A young woman wearing a long, patterned flowing dress and a backpack steps out.

Clint squints. “I got this. Follow my lead," he says, giving Phil a hand up.

“Hey," Clint smiles at the woman, and she gives him an uncomfortable smile back. Clint grabs Phil’s hand and keeps it there. “Do you work at Houghton?"

“Yeah," she says, shifting her backpack on her shoulders.

“That’s so cool,” he says, earnest. “How’d you get Houghton? They have me working at Widener."

She looks around. “It’s work-study, you know. Like the other student library positions. You’re a student, right?"

“Yeah, Folk and Myth."

“Me too!" she says, excited. “I can’t believe I haven’t seen you around! There’s barely any of us.”

“Yeah," Clint looks down. “I had to take some time off. Just came back this semester. My dad passed away."

“Oh," her brow furrows, "I’m so sorry."

“This is my boyfriend, Peter.” Clint keeps a hold on Phil’s hand and grins.

“Oh," the girl gives him a relieved smile. “That’s cool. My name’s Jennifer. Do you go here too?"

“Graduated a couple years ago,” Phil says, wrapping his arm around Clint’s waist. Two can play at this game. “Concentrated in Romance Languages and Lit-eratures.”

Clint lets go of Phil’s ass cheek. “Hey, Jennifer, do you know how I could check out any books on that metal box in Houghton with the Hydra engraving on it? I’m supposed to write this paper, and I know I shouldn’t have waited so late, but it’s due tomorrow, and I thought you could see the collections on Sundays, not Fridays-“

“Oh,” she waves a hand, “you can’t see that in the general tour anyway. You usually have to sign up with a research librarian but that would take,” she worries her lip. “Just follow me, ok? I’ll show you."

“Are you sure?" Clint gushes. “That would be amazing. I don’t want to put you out…”

“Oh, no problem. Really. I like talking about this stuff.”

She turns to go through the door, and Phil sees the bright rainbow pin on her backpack, along with one that says “Smash the Patriarchy!”

Clint lets go of his hand. “After you, honeybear.”

“Sure thing, cupcake."

The girl swipes in with her ID, and Clint quickly says, “His doesn’t work anymore," pointing to Phil.

“Oh, yours won’t work either. Don’t worry.” She pulls out a paper chart. “They’re with me,” she says to the book contraband guard.

They each put signatures and dates in the log, and follow Jennifer down through the stacks.

“What got you interested in Hydra?” Jennifer asks conversationally.

“Oh, you know, ‘Cut off one head, two more shall take its place,’” Clint says in a cheesy German accent.

“The 1968 Captain America film,” Phil identifies confidently.

“Nerd,” Clint says affectionately. “I’m really interested in reincarnation myths in general. They’re in pretty much every world culture. It’s kind of a recent thing for me,” Clint shrugs, “I guess I just connect with all the stories of wanting to bring people back to life. Win against death.”

“Yeah,” she says sympathetically, “I can see how you’d be drawn to this one in particular. It’s kind of fascinating. It’s not common knowledge, but the organization the myths spawned really does keep popping up. It’s existed in one form or another for centuries. Just when we believe it’s dead, it rises again.” She slides back heavy panel, using the weight of her body to move it.

“Wow,” Phil says. “Can I?”

“Sure,” she says, “just don’t touch it. What you need to know? For your paper?” She turns to Clint.

“They were some kind of instructions inside it, right?” Clint asks. “About how to raise the dead.”

“Yes,” she says, going into recitation mode. “But not just one individual- Hydra come in pairs. The text lists some common ingredients for the resurrection, which texts like this usually do. This one specifies that only a true follower of Hydra, with the blessings of Hydra running through their veins, can be the recipient of the resurrection. What makes it really unique is that it specifically outlines a transfer of consciousness from the deceased follower to take over the mind of an enemy, growing from within like a parasite."

“That doesn’t sound like any other resurrection myth I’ve ever heard," Clint observes. “Most of them seem like wishful thinking."

“Sounds like you’ve got your paper,” Jennifer says.

“I think I do, thanks.” Clint grabs an index card and pencil from the nearest shelf. “Could you tell me that list you mentioned?"

*

The list is mostly useless, except for one item whose translation seems to roughly be ‘the cube.’

“The cube,” Clint says flatly. “Yeah, we’re really getting somewhere.”

“You were the one who wanted vague clues, cupcake,” Phil teases. “We’ll keep looking. Nice job, though."

“Oh yeah? You like that?” Clint flirts.

Phil puts the key in the door, clicks open the locks. “Maybe I did," he says casually. He doesn’t laugh. “Really. Nice job.”

*

As soon as the through the door of the safe house, and Phil lifts his hand from the lock, Clint pushes him up against the door. 

“What,” Phil starts, thoughts going wild. Then Clint kisses him. 

He kisses back for a brief, shocked second, hands going to Clint’s waist. Then he pushes him away. 

“Clint. Stop,” he says firmly.

Clint backs away, furrow in his brow. “You were flirting with me,” he says. It isn’t a question. 

“I- yes, a little,” Phil manages. “Don’t you think this is...fast?”

Clint rolls his eyes. “What, you want a few months of going steady first? I’m not a girl. You don’t need to warm me up and meet my parents.” 

“That’s not what I meant,” Phil says, frustrated.

“What, then,” Clint says flatly

“You’re not just doing this because you think I want it, are you?” Phil says, out of all the other things he could have said. _You’re still technically under arrest. I’ve known you for three days. Or four years._ Oh, fuck. Phil’s obsessions always did get the better of him, and Hawkeye has been in his thoughts every day for a long time now. 

“Yeah, you know what, nevermind,” Clint crosses his arms over his chest. It looks more like cradling than a power play. “I don’t like to fuck people who think I’m some damn kid who can’t make his own decisions. If I want someone that patronizing, I’ll find a social worker. You didn’t ever happen to be one of those, did you Phil?”

The room is very quiet for a long moment. 

“I’m going to grab a beer,” Clint says. “Don’t wait up for me, dear.” 

“Oh,” Phil replies. 

“What?”

“The cube,” Phil says softly.

“That sounds like an oh no,” Clint says, snapping right back into professional mode.

“That’s why they wanted to be in SHIELD. We’ve had the cube all along." Phil grabs the phone off the wall and starts dialing. “I need to speak to Director Fury.”


	5. Chapter 5

“Do you know how hard it is to find a phone in the Balkans, Agent Coulson?"

“I believe the security of the cube may be compromised, Sir." Colson cuts to the chase. Dodgy connections, you never know.

Colson holds the phone away from his ear while a string of muffled curses pours from the speaker.

“Yeah, I heard about Williams’ confession. I was just hoping he was some crackpot."

“You and me both.”

“I’m heading stateside," Fury says, “but it may take me a day to get there.” Rapid gunfire breaks out in the background. “Uh, maybe more."

"Understandable, Sir. I wanted you to be aware that I may take some actions that seem. Unorthodox.”

“Agent,” Fury sighs, “if your supervisor hadn’t passed through a request to give you free reign, do you think you’d be sitting cozy in your safe house right now?”

“My supervisor?" Phil asks, icewater pouring down his spine, but the line is dead. He hopes Fury hung up.

“It’s a trap,” Phil says to Clint. “It has to be.”

“That is one of my least favorite things to hear,” Clint frowns. “Top 10, definitely.”

“They’ve been watching us,” Phil thinks back. “They could’ve killed us at any time, but they didn’t. Either they're that convinced we’re not a threat, or-“

“Or they want us alive, and are counting on us following them."

“We can’t not,” Phil hisses through his teeth. “We can’t let them gain possession of the cube. It’s too dangerous. And my supervisor’s Hydra, apparently, so it’s not like we can trust anyone else we’d send after them."

“I’m still in, boss. Where do we need to get?"

"Upstate New York,” Coulson says, grabbing his keys.

“Oh, great," Clint says flatly, “you kept the supernatural death cube somewhere outside of New York City. Because Indian Point wasn’t enough."

“Upstate New York is a big place, Hawkeye."

“Yeah, but you didn’t stick it in the Adirondacks or at the Canadian border, did you?"

“No," Phil winces. “No, we did not."

*

"Holy shit," Clint breathes as they round a corner on the gravel road. “You said _facility_. This is a whole fuckin’ Complex.”

Phil shows his badge to the guards and passes through. “You should see the facility off I-80 in Nevada."

“What, the one for the aliens?" Clint laughs. Phil doesn’t. 

"I knew it,” Clint whispers to himself.

"You can take whatever you need from the trunk,” Phil says when he parks. “They won’t stop us for weapons."

“You know what I’m getting when this is all over? A really nice bow and arrow. If I’m not in prison for the rest of my life." Clint scans the parking lot. “Wow, they should really use letters and numbers for this. Like Disneyland.”

Phil pops the trunk and smiles. “Disneyland uses character names for their parking lots.”

Clint gives him a look. “You really think I’ve ever been to Disneyland?” He plucks out a couple of throwing knives and a gun. “Man, I really wish I had arrows."

“So it wasn’t a signature kill thing?"

Clint looks at him like he’s grown another head. “No. I just really love arrows."

Phil adds a gun to the stunner he’s got tucked away. “You know, I don’t think I’m surprised.”

All of the security systems down deep in the restricted bowels of the facility are green-lit, but there’s an eerie hush over the place that speaks otherwise.

No guards ask for identification. No door denies Phil’s pass. It turns out to be wishful thinking that it’s Fury’s doing when they stumble upon a small hill of the bodies of unconscious guards. 

Not unconscious, Phil amends when he leans down to check their breathing. He rocks on his heels. “We could call in backup. We don’t know how many are down there."

“I mean,” Clint gestures to the bodies on the floor, “clearly not all of SHIELD is in on this.”

“Well, of course not,” Phil says quickly. He walks over to the speaker on the wall. “This is Agent Coulson. Is someone getting this?” 

“We’re reading you, Agent," a voice crackles over the speaker. Phil breathes a sigh of relief.

“There are hostiles in the lower levels,” Phil reports. “Not sure yet how many.”

“Sending backup,” the speaker reports sharply. “Where are you located?"

“All the way down. Level 10.”

“Stay on the line if you can, Agent." There’s a pause. “We’re having some trouble getting to you.”

“Okay,” Phil thinks quickly. “Where are you?”

“Level minus one. We’re having some technical problems."

Phil closes his eyes. This is the most secure portion of the facility, which really is saying something. It could take them all day to manually break through every door.

“Please be advised, the hostiles will likely attempt to leave by a secondary exit." It’s the only thing that makes sense; as obvious it is that this is a trap, they’re not leaving through a series of doors engineered to lock shut behind Phil and Clint.

“Don’t worry, Sir," the speaker informs him, “there’s only one means of entrance and egress from the lower levels."

“Yes, thank you Agent. Please get here as quickly as you can.” Phil leaves the room behind, Clint following.

“There’s always a secondary exit, even 10 levels underground,” Phil says. “And if I know anything about paranoid men like Director Fury, a very small number of people know where it is.”

“This day just keeps getting better,” Clint drawls. “Hey,” he perks up, “at least it’s a trap for you, not me.”

“You think so?”

“Well, I figure they tried to kill me, right? So they were fine with getting rid of me. It’s you they want for their sacrifice ritual. Shoot,” Clint sucks in his lower lip and breathes in sharply, “I’ve never been so happy to be dispensable. Don’t worry though, boss,” Clint pats his shoulder, “that’s why I’m here. I’ve got your back.”

“Ready?” Phil asks that the last door.

“Nope. Do it.”

The cube is glowing far more brightly than when Phil was first assigned to guard it. It bathes the faces of the five individuals circled around it in an eerie electric blue. There’s one guard standing across the way, but Phil doesn’t spot any more hostiles. He’s relieved, and not only because 6:2 odds are better than 20:2, but because it means the infection in SHIELD hadn’t gone as deeply as he feared.

A woman turns away from the circle and smiles at them. “Clint Barton. You’re just in time.”

“Typical,” Clint comments as he trains his gun on her.

“I’m curious how you powered it,” Phil interjects, drawing her attention. “It’s been dormant for years.”

“Has it? Maybe you just didn’t want something badly enough.”

“You’ve been with SHIELD for a long time, Sam. Congratulations,” Phil says evenly.

“You know I always play the long game, Phil. And I’ve loved playing it you. Thank you for coming through for us,” she gloats. “You had me worried you were going to get Barton killed for a moment there, taking him from medical. But you’ve always been a bit of cockroach, haven’t you?”

“I see it now,” Phil fishes, “killing him was a great way to keep him alive.”

“You were supposed to think he was dead. And if you hadn’t been so obsessed with him, you wouldn’t be.”

A beam of blue light shoots from the cube, and Phil collapses to the floor.

*

_“Boss! Hey!”_

Phil’s world comes back into focus through a series slow, disoriented blinks. He rolls onto his side, nauseous, and finds himself staring into the open eyes of a corpse. He sits up quickly.

“It’s them! They’re the ones powering the-“ Clint’s voice breaks off, and then he starts screaming. 

_Maybe you didn’t want something badly enough._

Adrenaline brings the world into sharp focus. Phil comes up shooting, hits one of the two remaining men around the circle, then the guard in quick succession. The guard topples immediately, but the men in the circle blinks at him for a long second, eyes glowing a bright blue. Phil shivers at the tendril of alien recognition he feels in his mind, but then it’s gone, and the man falls to the ground.

At least there’s that. Sam is deeply engaged in whatever she is doing to Clint, acting as some sort of bridge between himself and the cube. He’s tempted to go for her first, but he knows that as soon as he’s distracted, the other man will take him out. He drops, a bullet grazing the top of his shoulder. Sure enough.

He slides behind a crate and takes potshots while Clint keeps screaming. “God damn it!" Phil shouts, stands and takes the shot, then quickly rolls to the ground. He feels the bullet hit, straight through his shoulder, and gets back up.

He doesn’t bother conserving bullets; he just shoots straight into Sam’s center mass, one after the other. Her head swivels towards him, brow furrowed, when the first one hits. The others dissolve in a wave of soft blue light. Then a dagger of light shoots from the cube towards him, following when he ducks.

*

“Hey, c’mon,” Clint sounds like he’s crying. “Hey.”

“Why are you crying?” Phil asks. His recent memory is sluggish to return for a few moments, then snaps back when he sees the bruising down the side of Clint’s face. “You’re hurt,” he frowns. 

“I’m,” Clint gives his a wet laugh. “Jesus Christ.” He pulls Phil up, grabbing his shoulders, and touches their foreheads together. “Thought you were dead.”

“Thought I was too,” Phil says. “The first time and the second time. But I’m a cockroach, apparently.” 

“Nah,” Clint pulls away, keeping his hands on Phil’s shoulders. “I just wanted you to live more than she wanted you to die.” He inclines his head toward the cube. “That thing’s evil, boss. But only because people are. It needs to be at the bottom of the deepest trench in the ocean.”

"So it’s like the world’s most powerful and amoral genie, huh?”

Clint nods. 

“You ok?” Phil lifts a hand to Clint’s face, traces his thumb over the drying tracks of tears on Clint’s cheek. “You’re shaking.”

“I think I just got Voldemorted,” Clint laughs. 

“Jesus. Do you always make everything a joke?”

“Boss, I’m a chronic depressive. If I didn’t joke about everything, I’d be in the ground.” Clint freezes when Phil tries to pull him in for a hug. “Not here,” Clint says shortly, looking around. “I don’t want to- I need to be at home.” 

“Ok,” Phil says, and gives him a hand up. “Where’s that?” 

“Shit,” Clint laughs, strained. “Evicted, probably. Been on the run from you guys too long. Landlord gets pissy if the rent’s an hour overdue.” 

“That’s ok,” Phil says. “If you go to medical first, I’ve got a spare room for as long as you need it. You can put posters on the wall and everything.” 

“I hate doctors," Clint complains, but he gives Phil a hand up. “But it’s better than going straight to prison.”

“Not if I can help it.”

“Coulson,” a voice booms down from the rafters.

Phil gives the ceiling a tired smile. “I knew there was a back door.”

Fury slides down a long metal pole, boots hitting the ground with a hard thud. “I like to have options. And you’re going to medical, sorry Barton.”

“Yes, sir,” Clint says hesitantly.

Fury looks over at Phil. “Everything good here?”

“Situation secure, Sir. Everything will be in my report.”

“Coming from you Agent, I’m sure that’s true.” Fury sighs and looks over at the cube for a long, quiet moment. “How would you like to move to New York, Agent?”

“I’ll go where I’m needed,” Colson replies.

“Don’t look so down, Agent. I’m trying to promote you.”

“Oh,” Colson’s eyes go wide. “Thank you. It’s an honor.” He pauses, looks over at where Clint is trying to blend into the carpet. “I have condition, Sir.”

Fury’s eyebrows shoot up. “I’d be very interested to know what that is.”

“Clint Barton has chosen to put himself on the line for this mission when he could have run. You know how long it took us to find him. The agents he killed were working for Hydra, which will come to light soon. He doesn’t belong in a prison cell.”

Fury blows air through his teeth. “Do you know how many meetings I’ll have to sit through in the next week to make that happen?” He points at Phil. “You’re doing the paperwork. I’m just signing it, you hear me?”

“Thank you, sir,” Phil says, relieved.

“Can’t just send him back to the streets, though,” Fury reflects. “I’m sure he’ll cause me a hell of a lot of problems there. Barton,” Fury barks.

Clint snaps to attention. “Yessir.”

“You want to be a SHIELD Agent?”

Clint freezes, stares at him, jaw dropping a little. He visibly collects himself, nods. “I figure whatever Agent Coulson considers good people is good people. Sir.”

“Well, then. I have other problems that need my attention.” Fury points to Clint, then to Phil. “Your responsibility,” he says, and turns away. 

“Sir,” Phil says, going bright red. “I have a conflict of interest to report, if I understand correctly.”

Fury turns back, giving him a wide disbelieving eye. “What now?” 

“Clint and I, we’re, um,” Phil manages. 

“Really? Huh.” Fury looks between them. “Not my problem. No one else is gonna want to deal with him, and you volunteered yourself. Make it work.” 

“Yes sir,” Phil and Clint chime. 

*

It’s a long few hours in medical being scanned, scanned again, poked, prodded.

“I’m not gonna kill myself, Jesus,” Clint complains, cutting off the fifth obvious psych question.

The psychologist frowns and opens his mouth, but Phil steps in. “You didn’t find anything wrong with him, right?"

“Physically, he’s perfectly fine,” the psychologist reports.

“Ok, you had your time. He’s tired.” Phil gestures to Clint. “Let’s go. We’ll grab some pizza on the way home.”

“Bless you,” Clint says, neatly tugging out the IV.

*

As soon as Clint gets to the guestroom, he closes the door and stays there.

Phil is nodding on the couch watching The Aristocats because he couldn’t sleep (it was either late-night television, Captain America, or Disney), when he hears a clatter from the room.

“Clint?” He pushes the door open, eyes adjusting slowly to the darkness. Clint isn’t on the bed, and he has a brief moment of panic before he sees movement under the desk.

“Hey,” he says, crouching down.

“Hey," Clint answers, clears his throat. “I think I just knocked off your fancy pen holder thing.”

Phil sits cross-legged. “That was my great aunt Marcie’s. She was an evil woman. I’m more worried about you."

“I’m fine. Sorry."

“You don’t need to be sorry. You want company?"

Clint hesitates. “I’m kinda losing it. I don’t wanna freak you out."

Phil slides forward and opens his arms. “Give me some credit," he says, and Clint shuffles over. Phil runs a hand from the nape of his neck to his spine, and Clint relaxes a little. 

“I don’t want to have sex,” Clint says, tucking his nose in Phil’s neck. 

Phil thinks that maybe someone took advantage of Clint when he was this vulnerable before and it makes him sad. He’s never, ever telling Clint that. 

“I’m watching The Aristocats. Want to join?” 

Clint perks up. “Ok.” 

Later, with Clint’s head in his lap Phil rambles a little, commenting on the movie, keeping Clint occupied. He runs a hand through his hair. "Aren't those uncomfortable?" he comments on the hearing aids.

"Yeah," Clint says drowsily. "Can't hear without 'em, though. Too jumpy right now for that."

"Ok," Phil says, and watches the movie for a few minutes.

“Red Skull is a creepy as shit human being," Clint says out of the blue. 

Phil hadn’t realized, and he thinks Clint knows it. Clint’s trusting him, relaxed, letting Phil be on guard for him. “I’m sorry,” he says, leaning down to kiss his hair. 

Clint makes a pleased noise. “I’ll bounce back,” Clint reassures him, yet again. _I’m not crazy. I’m in control._ “Just need a nap. Feel better in the morning.” 

“I’ll be right here,” Phil says, and leans back into the couch.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ok, so, sex didn't happen in this one. sorry. it became something I didn't expect
> 
> HOWEVER, I am writing follow up fic that is basically all porn. Please request what you'd like to see in the comments or at my tumblr: bookish-but-corruptible.tumblr.com
> 
> The next fic will not be porn, but Clint's tragic backstory. I already have it mostly written. Thank you for reading and commenting! :)


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